


Light Up

by CloudySonder



Series: Happy Angel, Happy Demon [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lighting up when they see each other, M/M, Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudySonder/pseuds/CloudySonder
Summary: Based on the tumblr OTP prompt "lighting up whenever they see each other".---In hindsight, Crowley should’ve noticed earlier that he was a bit… overly infatuated with Aziraphale.





	Light Up

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who binged "Good Omens" in a day and immediately wrote a drabble because Crowley and Zira are soulmates.
> 
> *proudly points at myself* this bitch
> 
> (Also posted as a reblog on the OTP prompt list on tumblr on my blog "Inked Scenes/inkycomputerkeys".)

In hindsight, Crowley should’ve noticed earlier that he was a bit… overly infatuated with Aziraphale.

It was probably because of their situation. Him being an angel and Crowley… not being an angel.  _Very_ not being an angel, in fact.

They were supposed to hate each other. Crowley was supposed to think angels were stuck up and boring, and for the most part (he was very proud of himself for doing so), he did. Gabriel, in particular, was like a porcelain puppet Crowley couldn't stand being in the same room in. Crowley reckoned you could replace the son of a bitch with a broken record that played "I will follow the Great Plan" on repeat, and heaven wouldn't notice a thing.

That was probably what pissed him off about angels.

Their unwavering belief in God, in Her Plan. Never put their own virtues, their own values over God's, and most importantly, never asked questions. Though Crowley supposed that was what had gotten him thrown down here in the first place.

Aziraphale was different.

Each time Crowley asked him a question, he listened intently and answered seriously. Aziraphale had his own views on justice, and morality, and the thin line between good and bad. If Crowley ever asked "why", Aziraphale replied as  _Aziraphale,_ not one of God's messengers who chorused "because of the Great Plan" on repeat. 

Having his questions heard and answered...

It made him happier than he cared to admit.

Aziraphale was different.

Crowley knew that minutes after he met him. What kind of angel used their wing to shield a demon from the rain? Gabriel would've watched him get soaked, and try to push back a few smug smirks in doing so. 

Under Aziraphale's pure white wing, (and it may simply have been a trick of the light) Crowley thought the world looked brighter, and maybe, just a bit, an ineffable bit kinder.

He came up with reasons to see him. (It wasn't bloody hard; the angel never turned down a meal, and got himself into more trouble than Crowley could make, which was, frankly, an insult.) He made up the Arrangement so they could regularly meet up, and he had slowly leveled up from begrudging acquaintance to a business partner.

Crowley had (stupidly) thought it was just (very) prolonged intrigue, then. After all, where else would you find an angel who talked about authors, books, and food more than God?

But then they had drank together, and the son of a bitch angel was too clever and  _good_  for his own good, trying to act like a God's Messenger, but failing, sometimes, miserably. A little bit of Aziraphale always shined through.

Crowley thought it was spectacular.

Crowley’s face started doing a weird thing every time he saw Aziraphale. Yes, of course he covered it up with his sardonic poker face immediately, he wasn’t  _stupid_ , but it didn’t stop his heart and stomach basically doing the same thing his face was trying to.

It was Pavlov’s dog, he told himself. Because Aziraphale always miracled nice wine and tables at nice restaurants, and he liked that. Not Aziraphale. Definitely not Aziraphale.

(Crowley thought, once, that Aziraphale too seemed a bit brighter when they met up, but dismissed it because Aziraphale was an angel, and angels tended to do that.)

Crowley never showed up late when they met up, despite his obnoxious nature. Aziraphale never not showed up early.

He probably just imagined it, but Aziraphale looked giddy when he saw him.

Lunch. Sometimes, dinner.

It didn't feel like a demon and an angel were going out to dinner. It never did.

Not a demon and an angel.

Crowley and Aziraphale.

Crowley caught the eye of Aziraphale, who beamed at him and waved, beckoning him over to the park bench where he sat.

Crowley, who had finally puzzled out that he was in serious goddamn love with the angel, probably for a couple hundred years, at least, felt his heart and his stomach do the weird flippity floppity again. He had waited six thousand years and waiting longer just meant more glasses of miracled wine with the angel.

Crowley figured he was okay with that.


End file.
